


Me-Time

by rudbeckia



Series: Geraskier fics [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bathing/Washing, Fluff, M/M, Mentioned Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23260219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rudbeckia/pseuds/rudbeckia
Summary: Jaskier is preparing for the luxury of a well-earned bath when he gets an unexpected visitor. Perhaps it’s time to show Geralt that he knows a little magic of his own.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geraskier fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699972
Comments: 5
Kudos: 178





	Me-Time

Jaskier rubbed his aching calf muscle and looked longingly at the wooden tub. Clouds of fragrant vapour rose from the hot water, reflecting orange and red here and there, illuminated by the only source of light in the room: the fire that crackled in the hearth. He massaged his calf again, muttering to himself that the next time he risked having to make a swift exit from a lady’s chambers, he would plan his escape route in advance. He tutted, pulling at his torn stocking, and sighed again. He was sure he would bruise.

He felt some slight guilt about the excess, but he’d damn well earned this luxury. In the bar, a mere hour or so earlier, as he sang his heart out he’d heard someone grumble that it was That Witcher who did all the dangerous work, but, well. Wasn’t drumming up support (and coin) for the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken, Geralt of Rivia, also dangerous work? And if he skimmed a little coin for himself as recompense for the hours spent composing and rehearsing and singing sweetly of Geralt’s many fine qualities, then that was only fair.

After all, without the extensive liberties he’d taken with the narrative of Geralt’s many adventures and with Geralt’s (cough) generous (cough) attitude, then some of the songs would have been a mere couplet, or at best a single four-line stanza with no refrain.

Someone banged three times rapidly on the door. Jaskier’s face fell into a frown and he paused with his hands halfway down his shirt buttons, tensed and ready to leap for the window until he remembered that he was at an inn and not in some lover’s boudoir listening out for an unexpected husband.

“Give a bard some privacy, please,” Jaskier yelled, reasoning that angry cuckolds didn’t usually knock before barging in to brandish their broadswords. He resumed undressing, carefully shaking creases out of his clothes and hanging them up.

The knock came again, three more times, hard enough to make the hasp and pin rattle.  
“I’m bathing,” Jaskier yelled. “Do you even know what that is?”  
He swung one leg over the side of the tub, sucking in a breath at the almost too-hot sandalwood-scented water tickling and tingling his skin, then stood in the water for a few seconds, sighed and sat down slowly. A small groan escaped his lips.

The door banged one more time.  
“Go away,” he called out. “I’ll be at least an hour. I am not coming out until the water’s cold and I look like a prune. This is my me-time,” he added. “I’m composing my next ode to everyone’s most beloved Witcher.”

There was a sound like feet scuffling outside the room. Jaskier scowled at the wooden door.  
“But don’t you dare tell Geralt I called him beloved. If he finds out I’ll know, and I’ll know you told him, innkeeper! Anyway, I paid you already. Stop ruining my evening or I’ll compose a song about pustules on your pillock. Go. Away.”

With one more thump and a sickening, splintering noise, the door flew open. A large man strode in, strands of white and grey hair plastered to his forehead, cheeks darkened with grime.  
Jaskier groaned in dismay. “Geralt. How nice to see you. Come in... oh wait. You already came in.”  
Geralt glared.  
“Hmmm,” he said.

There was a silence and stillness long enough for Jaskier’s exposed skin to prickle with the cold draught from the door.  
“Were you born in a barn?” he snapped at Geralt.  
The Witcher frowned. “Hmmm?”  
Jaskier pointed at the open door.  
“Fuck.”

Geralt pushed the door closed but there was nothing to be done about the broken hasp.  
“Okay so I called you everyone’s beloved. Not specifically my beloved.” Jaskier said as he sank as far under the water as he could go without submerging. “You’ll have to pay for that lock. I spent my last coin on this bath.”

Geralt’s eyebrow lifted as he considered Jaskier’s words.  
“No,” he said, lifting Jaskier’s breeches and patting the pocket where his emergency coin purse nestled in a cleverly stitched false lining. Jaskier sighed in frustration as he watched Geralt search his things.  
“You could just ask, you know,” Jaskier said. “Use your words.”  
“Why?” Geralt replied, turning his head to watch Jaskier as he reached for the soap.

Jaskier watched him back as if engaged in some juvenile staring competition. Geralt won, but only because Jaskier suddenly noticed the state of his beloved witcher’s clothes and hair and, now he’d stepped closer to he flickering firelight, face.

Jaskier stood up so fast he sloshed precious scented water onto the floor. “Good grief, what happened to you? You look like whatever beast dragged you backwards through a hedge turned around and mauled you afterwards.”  
Jaskier stepped out of the tub and moved a little closer to the fire, closer to Geralt. Geralt’s lips tightened into a narrow line as he said, “Hmm.”  
“I can’t very well sing about your brave deeds and handsome face when you go around looking like that,” Jaskier said, pointing at the tub. “Come here. Get in.”

Jaskier beckoned Geralt closer. Geralt added an overtone of confusion to his usual frown.  
“Oh come on!” Jaskier huffed as he took the three steps over to stand in front of Geralt. “You look terrible. Do you need help to undress? Does the Butcher of Blaviken suffer from embarrassment?”

Geralt’s face relaxed just enough for Jaskier to infer permission. He unfastened Geralt’s weapons and stacked them against the wall, then removed one soiled garment at a time and hung them with the same care he gave to his own clothing.  
“All right,” Jaskier said when Geralt stood nude before him. “Let me check you over and tend to your inevitable wounds.”

Geralt’s lips twitched in something that might be a smile and he raised his arms to perform a single, slow turn as Jaskier let his eyes wander.  
“Huh,” Jaskier said. “Nothing. But I see you are still built in perfect proportion. I must add that to my latest composition.”  
“Don’t you—”  
Jaskier grinned and sang. “Ah Geralt, Geralt, Hmm, Fuck. The Butcher of Blaviken’s Beautiful Buns. Kiss each cheek and you’ll have good luck.” Jaskier nodded and pretended to play his lute. “Your arse deserves a verse of its own, don’t you think?”  
“—dare!”

The bard feigned insult. “No? Not good enough for you? All right. How about,” Jaskier led Geralt to the tub and prodded him to get in, which Geralt did with one hand on Jaskier’s shoulder for support. To Jaskier, the look of bliss on his Witcher’s face as the warm water soothed his aches made it almost worth the loss.

Inspiration struck when Geralt leaned forwards and Jaskier glimpsed parallel scratches on his back. “Oh I see the nature of your latest escapade now. How about An Ode to Little Geralt’s Big Adventures?”  
The sound Geralt made was more growl than, “Hmm.”  
“Maybe not.” Jaskier picked up the soap and the washcloth he had been about to use on himself. “Work with me here, Geralt. I need to get something out of this ruined experience.”

Geralt’s head turned to face Jaskier and Jaskier couldn’t look away even if he’d wanted to. “No,” Geralt said. “No songs. Not about... that.”  
“Oh,” Jaskier flashed a nervous smile. “Are you worried Yennefer will be jealous? Honestly, don’t blame you. She’s terrifying. I’d rather face a furious, sword-swinging husband than your Yennefer.”  
“Not mine,” Geralt insisted, shaking his head. “She doesn’t belong to anyone.”  
“And I bet she’d skin me for even hinting at it,” Jaskier replied. “So do you belong to her, then? How does this thing between you work?”  
“Hmm,” Geralt said, and slipped down the bathtub until his knees came up and his head disappeared, fully submerged beneath the rippling, fire-lit surface.

Jaskier waited with the soap lathering in his hands. When Geralt surfaced, he carefully unfastened the knot that held half of Geralt’s hair up and worked the soap through the grease and dirt soiled strands. Geralt allowed it and Jaskier found his witcher becoming more pliant and agreeable as the grime dissolved into the water. It was still warm enough, but Jaskier shivered.

“Look, I know your need was greater, but I’m getting cold and I’ve not bathed yet.”  
Geralt shifted. “Get in then,” he said.  
Jaskier regarded the space Geralt made for him between his legs and raised his eyebrows.  
“What?” Geralt said with a smirk. “Is my bard suddenly bashful?”  
Jaskier laughed and shook his head. “Just surprised,” he said, stepping into the tub and settling between Geralt’s knees. “You generally like to keep your distance. At times like this.”  
“That’s because I’m dangerous,” Geralt said, then he sighed deeply and closed his eyes.

“Ooh,” Jaskier said with a little shimmy of his back against Geralt’s chest. “Get you. Dangerous.”  
“I mean it,” Geralt said quietly. “People I let close to me don’t usually live long.”  
“God you’re so melodramatic, Geralt,” Jaskier said, closing his eyes as Geralt’s hands spread soap over his shoulders and chest. “Maybe you should consider a career change. Have you thought of becoming a bard?”  
Geralt’s hands went still and Jaskier held his breath. It took him a few seconds to realise that the strange sound coming from his witcher and the shaking of his ribcage was due to laughter.  
“Geralt—”  
“No,” Geralt said. “Hush.”

Jaskier settled back against Geralt and Geralt resumed his task of bathing Jaskier. When Geralt had lathered and rinsed everywhere he could reach, he pulled Jaskier back against him and held him there.  
“Thank you,” he murmured in Jaskier’s ear. “When magic fails me, you don’t.”  
“Huh,” Jaskier huffed. “You think there’s no magic happening here?”  
Geralt wheezed a laugh.  
Jaskier grinned impishly. “I can make magic without all that messy monster-killing stuff, you know. Want me to demonstrate?”  
“Go on,” Geralt said, trying hard not to smile. “Show me your magic.”

“All right,” Jaskier replied. “But if you want the... demonstration of magic to stop, say ‘hedgehog’. Got it?”  
“Hedgehog?” Geralt repeated, puzzled.  
“Yes. Name that spiny woodland creature and whatever we are doing ends at once.”  
“Hmm,” Geralt said, but in a more agreeable manner than usual.

Jaskier got out of the bath and told Geralt to turn and kneel, gripping the higher, back edge of the tub to steady himself. Jaskier got back in and knelt behind Geralt, stroking his backside with both hands. He watched Geralt’s muscles react as he trailed his thumbs into the cleft, over Geralt’s puckered hole, and followed with a scoop of warm water and a fingertip. Geralt gasped in surprise.  
“Fuck!”  
Unseen, Jaskier grinned.

When Geralt began to shift around, Jaskier stopped, stilled his hands, waited for Geralt to settle and planted a soft, warm kiss at the very top of the cleft.  
“What are you doing?” Geralt asked.  
“You’re not invoking the spiny woodland creature,” Jaskier explained, “so I’m not going to stop. I’m merely employing the ordinary magic of my own hands to make you feel good.”  
He kissed the same spot again then trailed his tongue down and around Geralt’s hole.  
“Hmm, fuck. Hmm-mmm,” Geralt replied.

Perhaps, Jaskier thought as he pushed his tongue into Geralt and followed it with one lathered finger, he might write a song for his own, private, entertainment, about how he made the White Wolf howl.

When Geralt had been reduced to a heaving, juddering mess, gripping the sides of the tub with white-knuckled fists and almost biting into the wood to stifle the godawful noise he’d been making, Jaskier took pity on his witcher and brought him right up to the edge of pleasure one more time then tipped him over it with two fingers of one hand teasing that pleasurable spot inside, and his other hand stroking Geralt’s cock.

Utterly spent, Geralt sagged weakly back into the too-cool water and turned to look at Jaskier.  
“What did you do?” he asked. “What did you trade with a demon to get magical powers like that?”  
Jaskier grinned then laughed. “It’s just ordinary magic like I said. I know how to make people happy, however temporary the situation turns out to be.”

Geralt said no more and Jaskier chose not to bombard him with chatter. When they were both dry and dressed well enough for basic modesty, Jaskier gazed at Geralt’s calm face with a touch of sadness.  
“I have a room here tonight,” Jaskier said, “and you’re welcome to share it. But I expect you’ll have somewhere more important to be.”  
“No,” Geralt said.  
Jaskier’s heart skipped and he couldn’t disguise the hint of excitement in his voice. “No you’ll stay, or no you’ll go?” he asked, dreading the answer.  
“I want to stay,” Geralt replied.

Jaskier’s smile was the widest and brightest Geralt had ever seen but he steeled his heart, ready to disappoint. “This isn’t—”  
“Oh I know,” Jaskier snapped dismissively. “But don’t say it, huh? Let me pretend. Just for one fucking night.”  
“Hmm,” Geralt replied at the end of a sigh, but he took Jaskier’s offered hand and allowed himself to be led anyway.

The room was small but the bed was more comfortable than Roach’s stall. Geralt lay down first and made space for Jaskier. The bard was almost asleep, cradled against Geralt’s chest, when Geralt spoke.  
“I don’t want you to get hurt because of me,” he murmured. “I have lost so many people. I won’t lose you too.”  
Jaskier felt Geralt’s lips pressing a kiss to his forehead. He moved just enough to return the kiss with one on Geralt’s lips. “You won’t lose me, Geralt,” he murmured back. “I won’t let you.”  
Geralt held him more tightly and kissed him again. “Will you sing about me? About this?”  
“No,” Jaskier confessed after a few seconds of thought. “Maybe to myself, but this isn’t for sharing.”  
“Hmm,” Geralt said, but Jaskier saw his lips upturned at the corners.

Geralt was already gone when Jaskier woke late, and he knew without looking that Roach would be gone from the stable. He closed his eyes all the better to remember Geralt’s rare smile, and hummed the tune of one of the many songs about his witcher that he would only ever sing for himself.


End file.
